Scars
by FlyingFish15
Summary: November, 1942. Erica Schwarz is Karl Kroenen's apprentice. While carrying out missions for the Thule Occult Society she has earned the title "Angel of Death" for a reason: it is difficult to defeat an assassin who possesses the gift of prescience.
1. Chapter 1: Krieg

**Chapter 1: Krieg**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz is mine.

Author's Notes: I have returned from a long hiatus from writing fanfiction. My intention is to post a few short stories that were just never developed enough to make it into _A Shadow to a Heart_ or _Though Heaven Bar the Way_ when I was writing them. So if they left you wanting more Kroenen and Erica, I hope these will satisfy.

* * *

 _November, 1942_

 _Germany_

The sharp crack of gunfire shattered the pre-dawn stillness.

Pop-pop! Pop-pop-a-pop!

The ambush had turned into a massacre. Just the way Kroenen liked it.

Trapped in the ravine with their backs against the very motorcade they had intended to destroy, the MI6 agents were pinned down by their attackers who were concealed in the forested slopes above. Too late they had realized that the trucks were a decoy; the priceless paranormal artifacts and occult texts were long gone, sent by circuitous paths to their new owner. Originally the historic relics had been appropriated by Nazi soldiers with orders to ransack Europe's museums, grand houses, and castles. The Fuehrer had a taste for fine European art, and for displaying the more famous works as proof of the Third Reich's supremacy. Grigory Rasputin was content to sort through the leftovers for the real objects of power.

Power that the paranormal division of MI6 clearly did not want him to have.

A bullet zipped by Kroenen's head. Nonchalantly, he raised his arm and fired back, and the man fell. The clockwork assassin caught glimpses of movement among the trees on the other side of the ravine. His apprentice, Erica Schwarz, was over there leading a small unit of handpicked _Schutzstaffel_ soldiers; it was her visions of the future that had supplied warning of the agents' imminent attack. Kroenen had strategized accordingly: they had ambushed the ambushers.

The sharp report of a rifle off to his right announced that one of his snipers had picked off another agent. The pale glow of dawn was in the sky; it was the cold, washed-out watercolor light of winter, but it was sufficient for the marksmen to see their targets. The dirt road at the bottom of the narrow valley was strewn with bodies.

The remaining MI6 agents took shelter inside or under the trucks. The assassin studied the situation, eyeing it as though it were giant version of his customary evening chess game. It would be too time consuming to wait for the agents to show themselves one by one. And though grenades would quickly put an end to all of them, Kroenen was hoping to take at least one alive for interrogation. The Fuehrer would want to know how so many MI6 agents had crept this deeply into Germany.

Turning his mind to Erica, Kroenen mentally reached out to her through the blood tie they shared. He could feel her waiting, patient but expectant, for his signal. Wordlessly he called to her, and felt her rising excitement in reply. His Angel of Death was eager for the hunt. Behind his mask, a ghost of a smile flitted across his nightmarish face. Silently he descended the hill to meet her. The SS soldiers followed.

No sooner had the assassin stepped foot on the path then a grenade detonated. The hellish fireball took out a truck and ripped the passenger door off another. The agent hiding inside hastily scrambled for the driver's door—Erica appeared out of nowhere. She caught the man by his elbow, hauled him out of the vehicle and threw him to the ground. Twin blades flashed above his unprotected back; spine severed and lungs filling with blood, the man slumped without a cry. Already in search of another victim Erica turned on her heel, her leather trench coat billowing out behind her like a pair of heavy black wings. She saw Kroenen and smiled; above the smooth skin and high cheekbones of an alabaster angel, Erica's steel-grey eyes were wild with the ecstasy of bloodlust. Then she slipped between the trucks and was gone, pursuing a man that was making a run for the tree line.

Movement in his peripheral vision alerted the assassin to a pair of agents dashing from cover, brandishing bayonets. A casual flick of Kroenen's wrists extended long blades from the sheaths on his arms. The blades outreached his opponents'. He brutally slaughtered the men, exhilarated by the power he gathered from the spilled blood and broken bone.

The road was a warzone. MI6 men struggled against elite SS soldiers; in the thick, bitter smoke of burning tires grappling men disappeared and reappeared. Fire blazed. Fresh blood steamed in the frigid air. Among the chaos of battle Kroenen caught glimpses of Erica, her tall slender frame weaving gracefully through the maneuvers of combat. She had lost her SS hat in the fighting, and strands of long chestnut hair were slipping free of the elaborate braid coiled at the back of her head.

 _If only you had been with me in the trenches of the Great War,_ Kroenen thought wistfully. The sight of her going over the top, striking fear in the hearts of men, would have been magnificent.

All too quickly the skirmish was over. Kroenen was disappointed. He had hoped the men would present a greater challenge, and therefore the opportunity to draw more power from their deaths. Ah well…surely there would be one or two left alive. The interrogation room offered him the luxury of time. There he could satiate his bloodlust slowly, meticulously. Already his palms longed for the scalpel, the signature tool of his interviews.

The SS soldiers stood guard amongst the burning vehicles. A few of the soldiers were bloodied, but there had been only two casualties. Not a single MI6 agent was left standing. Like specters of death, Kroenen and Erica prowled among the fallen. Each body was turned over by the toe of a boot; there were few survivors. Those that still breathed but were too badly wounded to be worth questioning were efficiently and ruthlessly dispatched.

Erica bent to slit a man's throat. She reflected that perhaps it really was the merciful thing to do; the man had taken a gunshot to the stomach, and would have been in agony for hours before passing. Her interest, however, was nothing so honorable. Hot arterial blood gushed out to coat her leather gloves, warming her cold hands and bringing with it a rush of dark power. It felt good.

"None worth saving over here," Erica announced. She wiped her crimsoned blades on the corpse's jacket and then retracted them into the forearm sheaths. Nimbly she got to her feet, warm exhales streaming from her mouth in little puffs of white fog that dissipated into the winter air. Killing had its thrill, but the high was wearing off. She had had enough. What she wanted now was a hot bath, clean clothes, a good meal, and then the red velvet armchair in front of her study's fireplace. Perhaps Grigory would have finished sorting through the plundered occult relics and she could peruse one of the new texts…

There was a flutter of movement on the ground between two tires.

BAM!

Something ripped into her chest, tearing a line of agony deep inside her ribs. Close on its heels came another bone jarring impact, this one slightly lower, and blinding pain.

 _I've been shot,_ she thought dazedly. _A handgun…twice?_

Another explosive thud reverberated through her bones, followed by the snap of breaking ribs. Erica was not certain if she had been shot again, or if it had been the force of her body striking a torn off fender and then the earth. It hardly mattered; it was excruciating and every attempt to draw a breath was like being stabbed by knives. She gasped anyway; choking on hot, thick blood that she desperately hoped was from a broken nose and not from punctured lungs. Biting cold was seeping up her limbs; her hands and legs tingled painfully as numbness set in.

Darkness rushed above her; there was the clap of leather, the familiar scent of boot polish and old blood. Indistinct noise and movement boiled around her. A man shrieked.

Then, blissfully, there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2: One Foot in the Grave

**Chapter 2: One Foot in the Grave**  
Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz is mine.  
Author's Notes: In which Kroenen is more than a little mad, in every sense of the word.

* * *

 _November, 1942_

 _German Countryside_

The military truck hurtled down the narrow dirt lane, roughly jostling its occupants. Inside the covered truck bed near the tailgate two _Schutzstaffel_ soldiers sat sharply at attention despite the injuries they had received. Both men fixed their gaze on a point over the other's head, each determined not to draw the attention of the other two passengers.

Seated on the wooden floorboards Kroenen braced himself against the bumping and swaying and tried to stay as still as possible. He had precious cargo: an unconscious Erica lay cradled in his lap, her head tipped forward to rest against his chest. Her pale face was smeared red with blood from a broken nose. Half congealed clots caked her leather coat and the armored breastplate beneath. At her left shoulder and below her right breast bullet holes gaped in the metal; thick dribbles of scarlet oozed from the wounds, tracing the path of the armor's engraved filigree designs.

Erica was dying. As a surgeon and an assassin he knew the signs: the shallow, wet breathing; the sluggish, irregular pulse. But where those could leave doubt, Kroenen's link to his Angel did not. Deeply and with absolute certainty he sensed the empty chill of impending death edging close, ever closer. Her life force ebbed, flickering and guttering like flames before the wind. Reflexively he held her closer, protectively, as though he could physically ward off death and anchor Erica's soul to this world.

 _I can fix her. There is still yet time_ , he thought.

A stasis spell had staunched the bleeding and delayed the onset of shock, preventing further damage to the wounded tissues and allowing Erica to be transported. Kroenen normally used the spell to prevent decay in the cadavers he experimented on; it was not as effective on living beings and could only slow the inevitable. And used like this the spell was voracious. Maintaining it was draining the power Kroenen had gathered from his kills during the battle, power that would be needed to heal his apprentice when they reached the mansion and his lab.

Fortunately he had planned for such eventualities. He glanced at the two wounded SS soldiers. A gunshot to the knee for one and a smashed right forearm for the other ensured the end of their military careers. They had served well; no doubt the Nazi propaganda machine would parade them about as heroes. But Kroenen had a more pressing use for them.

Carefully shifting his body so that Erica was held securely in place by his left arm, Kroenen raised his right hand. The Luger pistol gleamed coldly as the assassin leveled it at the soldier with the ruined arm. The man's eyes widened with fear—and rolled back as the bullet took him dead center in the forehead. His body slumped limply against the blood spattered wall behind him.

Dark power flowed with the spilling of blood. Kroenen inhaled deeply, drawing the magic in with his breath and redirecting it to feed the stasis spell. He turned to the remaining soldier cowering against the tailgate. It was a shame to execute Aryans, but a necessary sacrifice.

 _We still have another hour on the road, perhaps more_ , Kroenen thought. The magic from one death would not be enough to sustain the stasis spell. And since the truck bed was already on its way to resembling a slaughterhouse…

The Luger's barrel locked on the remaining soldier.

In the cab the driver steadfastly ignored the gunshots. The truck barreled on.

XXXXX

 _Germany_

 _The Mansion_

Ilsa Haupstien was waiting in the garage when they arrived. Behind her a team of servants waited with a wheeled hospital bed and emergency medical supplies. With Erica's limp body in his arms Kroenen swept by them as though they did not exist—after what had happened no one else was going to lay so much as a finger on his Angel.

Hurried footsteps followed him down the mansion's dark hallways; a moment later Ilsa appeared at his side. She was annoyed at being ignored, but after assessing Erica's condition she had decided it was wiser to overlook the slight. They continued on to Kroenen's laboratory in silence. Ilsa held open the heavy door so he could pass through.

"I felt it just before you got here," she murmured, watching as the clockwork man gently laid Erica on an operating table. "My link to her is weak, but it gave me that much warning, at least."

Kroenen nodded in acknowledgement, busy stripping off his SS uniform and putting on a sterilized white coat and surgeon's gloves. Ilsa hovered in the background. Her anxiety and movement were distracting; the assassin waved her away, but not unkindly.

"Go. You will not enjoy watching any of this. If your power is needed to heal her you will know it. In the meantime, the man that shot her is chained in one of the trucks. Feel free to make sure he is uncomfortable."

Ilsa nodded and then was gone.

Focus restored, Kroenen swiftly evaluated his patient. The swollen black eye and broken nose, though striking in appearance, were relatively superficial and would be treated last. The extent of damage from the gunshots was an unknown; he would begin there.

Methodically he set about cutting the clothes from Erica's body. The black leather of her trench coat was the most difficult, followed by the thick straps of the breastplate. As he sawed at the straps he felt a pang of guilt. He had designed the lightweight armor, modeling it on the harness he wore beneath his outer clothing. Erica did not need to wind up a clockwork heart, so he had removed the gears, replacing them with delicate arabesque patterns intertwined with words of power and protection. But for all his efforts the armor had failed. True, the breastplate had absorbed most of the impact—as he carefully pulled it from under her body, he saw the bullets had not exited her back—but if it had worked as intended she would not have been hurt at all.

Right or wrong he had a nagging feeling that he was at fault, that somewhere he had made a costly mistake.

His blade made quick work of removing her jacket and collared shirt. The shreds of cloth fell away, revealing the bandage-like strip of elasticized fabric that Erica wore wrapped around her small breasts. Women's traditional undergarments were not suitable for her active lifestyle, and the more risqué fashions that Ilsa favored were simply too flimsy. The strip of fabric was stiff with blood; he took care to cut around the areas where it was stuck to her wounds, temporarily leaving the fabric in place to stem the bleeding.

All concept of time disappeared. There was only his work: blood and flesh, muscle and bone, medical science and arcane magic. Sedatives kept Erica dead to the world; magic dulled pain that otherwise would have revived her. Kroenen was pleased to discover that the bullets were whole, embedded shallowly in her chest—the armor had done that much good. He was less than pleased, however, about the broken ribs. If it had been his body he would simply have removed the ribs and replaced them with ones of similar size from the preserved corpses he kept for spare parts. But Erica's body would reject the foreign bone, leading to infection. In the end he used magic to encourage the rib pieces to just barely knit to one another. Though the repairs would be brittle for some time, and the effort exhausted his remaining power, it was better than making additional cuts to allow access for wiring the bones back together.

When he finished Erica was stable and resting in a drug-induced healing coma. Kroenen was abruptly aware of his weariness. The lab was cold and smelled of copper and the bitter, burning electrical odor of dark magic used for too long. He reached to cover Erica with a sheet and then paused, looking down at her naked form. That lovely long, slender body—though wrapped with strong, lean muscle—seemed suddenly so fragile.

Life was transient. Flesh was easily damaged and difficult to repair. This was far from the first attempt on his Angel's life but it was the closest she had come to death. The reminder of her mortality was hard.

 _One day my skill and knowledge will not be enough to save her,_ he thought. It ached, this realization that she was not as invincible as she seemed; even his Angel of Death would be conquered and struck down. Kroenen could not bear it. The clockwork man had grown fond of his apprentice over the years. He must find a way to protect her, one that would not fail as the armor had, so he would never be in danger of losing his Angel again.

 _There are permanent solutions_ , Kroenen thought as he tucked the sheet around Erica. In his veins sand marched endlessly on, pumped by a clockwork heart that was exact and enduring. Even if the heart stopped he would not die. The assassin had made a deal with his gods for his undead body, but he could not envision Erica doing the same. It was too extreme for her; she did not share his obsession with perfection.

Perfection . _He_ could make her perfect. Not Nazi Germany's idea of perfection—with brown hair and grey eyes she would never conform to the Aryan ideal— _his_ idea of perfection. Erica's anatomy could be reengineered in his image. It was not a permanent solution; he could only make her more difficult to kill, not invulnerable, but was that not a start? With a few surgical and mechanical modifications his Angel of Death could be so much more than she was now.

The mad scientist part of him was strongly tempted to begin that very moment. Erica was already in his lab and would sleep long. Why not use that time productively? Excited, he imagined presenting Erica with her new, improved body when she woke. It would be a surprise gift—

 _But will she like it?_

The logical part of his mind fought its way through the maelstrom of his frenzied inspiration.

 _Erica will be angry if I do this without her permission,_ he thought. Unbidden, another mental image came to him, this time of Erica waking and looking down at herself, horrified by the additions he had made. The assassin winced and then tried to pacify the intrusive image with reason. _I could tell her it was medically necessary._

That was somewhat open to interpretation. What was the definition of medically necessary? What would save her life now? What would prevent her death in the future?

 _I promised I would never hurt her._

Another statement to be interpreted. Kroenen regularly injured his apprentice during training. But that was to advance her combat skills, and she had yet to sincerely resent him for it. Perhaps this, too, was for her betterment? Perhaps she would be grateful, in time?

 _Nein._

The end of the matter was this: he could force this on her as he had countless condemned prisoners, could easily chain her to the operating table in his laboratory and keep her there until his dreams were given form in her flesh. He was capable of it. But it would give him little pleasure, and Erica would hate him for it.

It would be all the sweeter if she gave consent. He wanted her to be _willing_.

There was hope that when Erica awakened she would be open to his ideas. Biology had doomed her to die, and near death experiences could be persuasive. Erica might not agree to alter her body for his idea of perfection, but perhaps she would do it to cheat death.

Actually, the more he considered it, the more he saw how her active participation would be far better. Not only could they collaborate on the designs and have more time to refine them, but it would solve a glaring issue. As yet Erica had given no indication that she enjoyed pain, as he did, and the augmentation of her body would be a painful process. But the Angel of Death was resilient. If she focused on their shared purpose, committed herself completely to their aspirations, Kroenen was certain she could overcome the discomfort.

Yes, it would be better to wait. He could be patient. It would be best, too, for her to recover before violating her body's equilibrium again. Infection was always a concern. And the average person would require six to eight weeks to recover from the broken ribs alone. That could be reduced by a third—maybe half since at twenty years of age his apprentice had the vigor of youth on her side—if both he and Erica used their power to accelerate the healing process. Erica's magic, however, would be seriously diminished by her injuries. And Ilsa was unlikely to volunteer her own to the effort, if only because one out of the three of them should keep their power in reserve. It was paramount to heal Erica as much as possible while she was still unconscious. But Kroenen's magic was exhausted; a supplemental source of power would be required.

It was close at hand: the MI6 agent. By now he would be below in the cells, awaiting Kroenen's pleasure.

The assassin's fatigue evaporated, replaced by energy born of vengeance. In the darkness behind the ebony mask pale skin stretched taught as a lipless grin widened. Was it not poetically ironic that the person who had attempted to murder the Angel of Death would be one of the very reasons she lived?

XXXXX

 _The Mansion_

 _Lower Basement Cells_

With his hands clasped neatly behind his back, Kroenen strode to the room's center and assessed the prisoner. Stripped naked to the waist and strapped to a vertical metal slab, on Ilsa's orders the man had been severely beaten with rifle butts. Despite his battered state the scruffy square-jawed MI6 agent did not seem worried; he grinned crookedly at Kroenen.

"Did I break your little toy?" the agent asked mockingly. Silence was the only reply. The man seemed to interpret it and the blood on the assassin's clothes as confirmation that Erica Schwarz was dead. The agent nodded to himself, pleased. "Thought so."

Kroenen turned sharply on his heel and approached the steel carts arranged against the nearest stone wall. Servants had brought his equipment; located deep underground this cell was not one he typically used for questioning captives. He had chosen it because no sound would escape to the upper levels. Erica's sleep would not be disturbed.

Aware of the agent watching him, Kroenen donned a thick leather lab apron over his bloodstained surgeon's coat. Behind him the man spoke again, his voice heavy with disgust.

"MI6 briefed us about you freaks. Actually, looks like they don't know the half of it. With that mask and all the leather you're wearin' I can just picture the sick, twisted things you and that witch were into. But I guess I put an end to that, huh? You won't be fuckin' her again…well…unless it's true you do that to corpses…"

The assassin paused midway through opening a metal case, his gloved fingertips resting on the half-open lid. His stillness radiated danger.

 _I am going to relish every moment of taking this man apart_ , Kroenen thought viciously. He mentally catalogued the various slanders, particularly those against his Angel's virtue; each would be repaid with a unique agony.

Resuming preparations he retrieved a tray and arranged his tools on it with deliberate meticulousness. His rage was calculating, focused. During the Great War he had gained notoriety for his skill in the interrogation room. He knew the value of fear as a weapon. And even then Kroenen had been a fearsome figure. Usually he need only appear in his mask and leather apron, scalpel in hand, and captives stammered in their haste to reveal everything. Now was no different. The agent's false bravado would crack just as quickly.

He returned to the prisoner, bringing the cart with him. On top the neat rows of medical instruments gleamed sinisterly.

As Kroenen had predicted the agent paled and began to sweat. "If you're wonderin', I'm a mercenary," he said, coarse voice suddenly polite. "A sniper. This was about money—a lot of it. It wasn't personal. Uh—I know you're angry with me, but how about we make a trade? I'll tell you whatever you want to know, and then you let me go in one piece. Fair, right? Maybe you'd like to know how we got into Germany? Or why I was ordered to target your, uh, lady friend?"

A sharp kick from Kroenen released the latch holding the metal slab upright. It abruptly rotated backwards, slamming into a horizontal position. Ignoring the man's panicked yell, the surgeon-assassin grabbed the overhead lamp and yanked it down so it was above the operating table, its harsh light centered on the prisoner's chest. Long fingers danced over the tray of waiting implements and then, as was tradition, selected a scalpel. It was his favorite; why not begin there?

"Wait— _wait!_ Don't you have questions? Ask me somethin'— _anythin'!_ "

Kroenen twirled the scalpel between his fingers and tilted his head, savoring the infinite possibilities that lay before him. If he wished he could make this last _days_. He knew how to keep a mind conscious when it sought the escape of oblivion. He had cruel spells that would trap a soul in its body, no matter how damaged and tormented the flesh might be. The clockwork man leaned down until his polished metal mask was reflected in the prone man's terrified eyes.

"Oh, you will tell me everything, and eagerly. My Angel of Death survived. I will have retribution for her pain," Kroenen hissed. He straightened and brought the scalpel into view. "You offered information. Tell me, are you familiar with the word 'vivisection?'"


	3. Chapter 3: Captive

**Chapter 3: Captive**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz is mine.

Author's Notes: In which there is an appearance by an original character from my story _A Shadow to a Heart_. Reviews are very much appreciated, and thoughts and plot suggestions are also welcome. German to English translations: "Was zum Teufel?!" is "What the Hell?!"

* * *

Erica was drowning.

Icy fingers tangled roughly into the hair at the base of her neck, shoving her head under. An arm around her waist dragged her into deeper water. Weaponless, Erica flailed at the dark figure, fighting for her life. Her chest ached. She could not _breathe_.

She kicked hard off the bottom. Her head broke the surface and she gasped painfully for air, managing to twist in her assailant's grasp and smash her elbow into his face. Or at least where a face should have been. Utterly unharmed, the Shadow Man bent towards her, the oil-slick shadows of his featureless visage squirming into a nightmarish grin.

"Die, _Acire!_ " the Shadow Man hissed, emphasizing her true name as though it could make his words an order she must obey. "Your will is the only thing holding you to this world. You are in my power yet—surrender, die, and be damned!"

He forced her back under. Erica's feet felt for the bottom but it had vanished. The Shadow Man's arm constricted around her chest and bubbles burst from her mouth in a muffled scream. Drowning hurt, but it should not hurt like this. Every movement was like being stabbed. And oddly, her heart should be pounding but it barely seemed to be beating at all…

The Shadow Man was diving for the frigid abyss, taking her down with him. His legs dissolved into tendrils of gloom that unfurled and writhed, entangling her thrashing limbs. Erica gave up trying to hurt him. Instead she put everything she had into swimming for the surface.

The horrifying tug of war lasted an eternity.

Her lungs burned for air.

He did not need to breathe.

Her body was failing.

He was stronger.

It was inevitable: the Shadow Man was going to win.

A hand plunged into the murky water above her. Bloodless fingers crisscrossed with scars stretched out, grasping. Her heart soared.

 _Kroenen?_

Erica reached for him. Fingertips brushed and then her wrist was in Kroenen's iron grip. It clutched at her deeper than her flesh; it seized her very soul.

He pulled and she rushed towards the surface.

The Shadow Man fell away, screaming in rage.

XXXXX

Bright light. The acrid, nose-burning smell of too much disinfectant.

 _Ugh…dear gods that hurts…_

Erica came into consciousness and regretted it. As in the nightmare she had been having about drowning, there was not an inch of her that did not ache. What the hell had happened?

She cracked open an eye. It resisted, feeling swollen and bruised, but the lids parted. Too bright! Immediately she shut her eye, then tried again more slowly, grimacing and wincing while her eyes struggled to adjust to the light. Erica could just make out something above her…it gradually settled into focus. It was some sort of industrial steel lamp. No, not industrial exactly. _Surgical_.

Alarm propelled her upright—

There was a sharp jerk at her elbows and agony exploded inside her torso as she was slammed flat on her back. At the edges of her vision dark spots expanded and receded and swelled again; her mind flirted with painless oblivion, strongly contemplating surrender, but she rebuffed its tempting embrace. Something was wrong, very wrong, and she had to know what it was. Choking and nearly breathless, Erica glanced down: a thick leather strap was cinched around each of her upper arms, securing her to a metal table.

" _Was zum Teufel?!_ "

Her voice was a croak, rough and frighteningly disused. Just how long had she been unconscious? Where was she? How had she gotten here? Had she been captured? The tethers seemed proof of that. And based on the austere medical setting, whoever was responsible had an agenda of interrogation and torture.

They would find the Angel of Death a difficult prisoner to hold.

Erica's vision was still swimming and her thoughts frayed strangely; doubtlessly she had been drugged in an attempt to make her more compliant. But her training was ingrained. She was prepared for this. Kroenen had made certain of it.

 _I need to escape_ , she thought decisively. _I need a weapon. Now!_

A blood summons would obtain the means for both. The only materials needed were supplied by her body. And the ritual was brief. Though she was presently alone it was unlikely she would remain so; quick action was essential. Closing her eyes to increase her focus, Erica turned her thoughts inward and reached for the power that smoldered deep within her; power that the Seven Gods of Chaos had granted her in return for her service. Drawing it to her, she blew it into flame. She felt it rising, growing; the intoxicating thrill of it surging through her veins. In its wake the pain of her wounds dulled and the weakness left her limbs. And still the power swelled, gathering around her like a storm cloud crackling with energy. Half in a trance she opened her eyes to the sight of her long fingers tracing patterns of unearthly script in the air—of their own accord.

 _Not a good sign_ , she thought grimly. _The magic is meant to guide me, not take command_.

It was the only forewarning she would receive. Magic worked _through_ you instead of _by_ you was unpredictable and dangerous. Had she been rehearsing the spell she would have terminated it. But the menace of impending torture was persuasive. She would continue the ritual and attempt to regain mastery of the summons. If she failed, it was imperative to dispel the power immediately—assuming she had the energy, and the will, left to do so.

Dredging up what strength she could, Erica wrested her hands back under her control. She must finish swiftly; the torrent of magic sensed her body's frailty and was fighting all the harder to possess her. Reaching out, she tore a line down her inner left arm with the sharp edge of a fingernail. Blood welled up and the dark power around her roiled with excitement, sending phantom sparks dancing pleasantly over her skin. The world blurred at the edges. In the recesses of her mind she could hear the Ogdru Jahad; a groaning, bellowing vibration that resonated in her skull. A wicked smile quirked her lips. The havoc she was about to unleash! She wondered what shadow-thing her gods would send to answer her call…

Dipping a fingertip into her blood, she began to draw the first arcane sigil.


	4. Chapter 4: Riposte

**Chapter 4: Riposte**

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz is mine.

Author's Notes: In which Kroenen has drugged Erica, and it results in an unexpected outcome. German to English translations: "Danke sehr" is "Thank you very much."

* * *

" _Erica!_ " a male voice, harsh but familiar, cut through her daze. Sweet relief flooded through her as Kroenen's mask appeared above her. He was dressed like a wealthy surgeon in a white collared shirt, grey waistcoat, and dark short jacket with lapels. A gloved hand touched her elbow reassuringly; the other seized her right hand and firmly pushed the palm down, wiping out the half-formed symbol she had been painting above the cut on her arm. "You are safe. You are in the mansion."

He made a quick, dismissive gesture to the air behind him. Instantly the power in the room careened toward the far wall, scatting papers and shattering laboratory glassware. Stones cracked but held firm as the wave of power struck the wall and heedlessly hurtled onward underground, venting itself on the earth. Like a freight train the rumble of destruction rolled on, fading into the distance.

Suddenly bereft of the dark power that had strengthened her, the aches and pains and exhaustion rushed back into Erica's body with a vengeance—and they were all the more severe for their brief absence. An anguished moan tore from her throat.

Kroenen stroked her hair soothingly. Blinking rapidly to hold back tears, Erica tilted her head into his touch, seeking the comfort of his presence. He did not smell like old blood as he usually did, instead the odor of disinfecting iodine mixed with his familiar scents of leather and boot polish. Erica's scalp tingled slightly beneath his hand; the cold prickle of the assassin's magic trickled through her veins and vanished when it reached her toes. Mercifully some of the pain went with it.

" _Shhh…shhh…_ " his sibilant hiss was like a lullaby. "Breathe slowly. I know it hurts." He glanced the length of her body, automatically assessing her condition before turning his attention to her latest wound. He held up her bleeding forearm, examining it. Though he tried to keep it light, a stern tone crept into his voice. "Tsk tsk. Tell me, Erica, did you bother to assess the extent of your injuries before trying a blood summons? While I commend your resourcefulness, you are far too weak to maintain control of such power, or the beast you intended to call. You are fortunate I sensed your distress and arrived when I did—but perhaps I am too harsh. Your disorientation is likely due to the sedatives and aftereffects of anesthesia …"

"Anesthesia?"

She glanced down at herself. The sheet had slipped to her hips during her efforts at escape; she was naked. Ominously dark purple and black contusions were in full blossom across her chest, their centers punctuated by neat lines of thick black suture thread. Further down a compression wrap obscured the lower half of her ribcage. And beyond…with a start she recognized the steel operating table and the precise, efficiently arranged medical equipment: she was in Kroenen's lab. It was better than an enemy's interrogation room, but just barely. Kroenen had taught her many things but she had not acquired his taste for drawn-out medical torture. He knew the place disturbed her. For him to bring her here meant she had been badly hurt. Maybe even—?

"Kroenen," she whispered, staring in dismay at her damaged body, "was I…dying?"

"Ja."

His blunt, honest confirmation only increased her alarm. She, the Angel of Death, had almost died? _She?_ Her nightmare about drowning—it had been a twisted reflection of her body's fight to live. But she could not remember how any of this had happened—

Sensing her shock Kroenen reached to pull the sheet up, but Erica caught his wrist with shaking fingers.

"Nein. Please let me up. I want these things off me." She tugged meaningfully at the straps that held her to the table.

The clockwork man moved as though to comply, then hesitated, his fingers resting on the fastenings. It only fueled her agitation. She had seen corpses chained to this table, the remains of people who had been very much alive when they entered the lab but had not survived Kroenen's experiments with biology and magic. As long as Erica did not witness what grotesqueries the surgeon-scientist made of his victims she could tolerate his pastime. But now she was strapped down on the same operating table, like one of his test subjects—!

"Off, _now!_ " she insisted. It came out sharply, more a demand than a request. Erica instantly regretted it. She had not meant to snap at him; this table just made her skin crawl. She trusted him, she really did. Surely he had a good reason for his hesitation? Surely, knowing how she felt about his lab, he was not teasing her?

The assassin tilted his head at her reproachfully and Erica was suddenly and acutely aware that his left hand still held her bleeding forearm. Her link with Kroenen was strongest when in close proximity; physical contact allowed them to speak directly into the other's thoughts. He always requested permission before intruding on her mind, as he did to see her visions, but reading her emotions was another matter. Since Kroenen was touching her it was unavoidable that he had sensed her irrational fear. Erica internally cringed and tentatively reached out to the clockwork man through their link. He felt resigned; as though he had anticipated her reaction and was disappointed it had proven true. Then he released her arm and the impression faded.

Nimble fingers effortlessly undid the clasps and the leather cuffs fell away. "Angel…they were never locked."

Now she was deeply embarrassed. Why had she not _checked_ the damn things? Under the pretext of getting more comfortable Erica shifted a bit and turned her face away; a useless attempt to hide the flush of shame spreading across her cheeks. Kroenen simply stood and watched her, the ticking of his clockwork heart seeming loud in the silence. As always his mask's unfathomable dark lenses revealed nothing and missed nothing.

"They were for your own safety," he elaborated. "To prevent you from moving too much in your sleep and tearing out your stitches."

"I—I am sorry," Erica murmured. "They frightened me when I woke up. I thought I had been captured. And I feel like I was hit by a truck." Wondering what the rest of her looked like she started to sit up, her fingertips stretching towards the edge of the sheet. Kroenen stopped her, his hand hovering over her bruised chest.

"What did I just say?" he admonished. "You had broken ribs, among other things, and they were difficult and time consuming to fix. Stay still."

Broken ribs—? Abruptly her memories came flooding back: the motorcade, the explosions! Easing back onto the table, Erica eyed her wounds again, comparing them with what she remembered. "Did I get shot?"

The assassin made a derisive noise that was made harsher by his mask. "Twice."

He gestured to a nearby table. Among a heap of tattered black fabric and leather which Erica recognized as the remains of her clothing, was her armored breastplate. It was warped. The distortions centered around two holes punched through the metal, one at the shoulder and the other just off to the side of mid-chest.

" _Scheisse_ _,"_ she breathed, the blood draining from her face. "How the hell did I survive that?"

Broken glass, the remains of the shattered laboratory glassware, crunched under Kroenen's boots as he retrieved a chair and settled into it. "You nearly did not. But the sniper's aim was poor. And you had a talented surgeon."

"Exceptional, you mean—the very best," she said, flashing him a tight but sincere smile. "Danke sehr _._ "

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, pleased by her praise. "It was my pleasure. Though I am truly sorry my skills were called for at all. I cannot help but feel at fault for giving you defective armor."

"It may not have been invincible, but surely it was of some use? More than if I had not worn it?"

"That is correct," he agreed, though somewhat grudgingly. "I will have to go back to the drawing board with that one. Along with some other things I am redesigning…"

Kroenen's gaze fell on her and lingered longer and more intensely than was polite, but Erica was not certain he was actually seeing her. He appeared lost in thoughts of whatever he was engineering. The moment stretched on, marked by the steady ticking of his clockwork heart. Just as Erica was about to call him back to the present the assassin shook himself out of his reverie. "In addition to the gunshot wounds, broken ribs, and blood loss, you have also sustained numerous contusions and a broken nose. And in spite of you falling face first into the ground, I personally assure you when the swelling is gone and the bruising fades that you will be as lovely as before."

Erica sensed he was taunting her and shot a slight glare in his direction. His laughter confirmed it.

"So it was not my lungs? I thought the bullets might have punctured one of them—there was a lot of blood. That was right before I blacked out. I heard a scream, too. Was it the man that shot me?"

The assassin nodded. "The sniper was captured. He begged for forgiveness, then mercy. I did not grant either. Healing your injuries required every bit of power I could wring from his body." Kroenen laughed again; this time the sound was heavy with cruelty and dark humor. The glare on one of his mask's lenses tilted crazily, like a peculiar wink. "You might say I got to know him rather thoroughly… _inside and out?_ "

Erica was thankful the sniper's mutilated remains were not in the lab. They were probably in one of the basement cells where Kroenen could work without having to stifle his victim's screams. Or clean up.

"He was also eager to share some information, which we can discuss when you are feeling better."

She frowned, realizing something. "You had time to do all of that? Just how long have I been in your lab stark naked and unconscious?"

 _Not nearly long enough,_ breathed a voice in the recesses of her mind. Erica shivered, uncertain if the voice was some bizarre thought of her own passing through, or if it belonged to Kroenen. The clockwork man was not touching her but his recent contact with her blood had likely intensified their link. If so, the effects would lessen with time—which was just as well. She did not want to overhear his private thoughts, or vice versa. Without context or explanation the half-heard fragments would make little sense. It would be best if she ignored them.

"You have been here as long as was necessary," Kroenen replied cryptically. He nodded at the white fabric pooled loosely about her waist, perilously close to slipping off completely. "And there is a sheet. Not that you seem to care to make use of it."

A thought that was definitely not her own floated unbidden through Erica's mind: _And not that I mind, either…_

Erica attempted a shrug and stopped, wincing. Her nakedness did not make her uncomfortable. "Why should I? You are my physician."

"I am also a man. And if you are going to casually display yourself in such a fashion…a man could get the wrong idea."

His tone was teasing, with just an edge of real rebuke behind it. Erica resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. "Kroenen, I have _never_ seen you with a woman."

"Oh?" Kroenen leaned back in the chair and propped up his boots on the support struts beneath the operating table. "So you think that just because you do not see it, it does not occur? I occasionally do things of which even you are not aware, Erica."

"But—if you—"

"If I what?" he asked serenely.

Erica blushed furiously. Afraid she would lose her nerve, she spoke quickly. "If you had taken a woman to your bed I would have sensed it."

Kroenen tilted his head slightly; the body language equivalent of a puzzled expression. "Whatever gives you that idea?"

"I sense Ilsa's…trysts…with Grigory."

"Really." The assassin's voice was suddenly flat and vaguely foreboding. His posture stiffened and Erica was certain that if he could, he would have frowned.

She did not understand why her words had provoked such a reaction. Not sure what else to do, Erica decided to elaborate. "My connection with Ilsa is weak, which is fortunate—I am able to shield myself from the intrusion when it occurs. But if you engaged in such passions…I doubt I would be able to block it. I would be forced to endure it, like some reluctant voyeur." A doubt entered her mind. "Do you not have the same issue with Ilsa?"

"It seems I need to have a talk with Miss Haupstien," Kroenen muttered, more to himself than to Erica. "And in answer to your question: ja, I did. But it was years ago. After his resurrection Grigory Rasputin put an end to it, along with other things between Ilsa and myself. He is a jealous man. Ilsa's tie to me is severely lessened as a result." The dark lenses settled on Erica. "As for your assumption that you would know if I took a lover—did it ever occur to you that perhaps I am simply more discrete than Ilsa? When I conduct surgery on myself I prevent both the pain and the pleasure of it from transferring to you. Why would I not do the same with my more carnal rendezvous? You should not assume, Angel."

So perhaps Kroenen had a point—or several. Their conversation had long since diverged from the topic of medical treatment; it really was not appropriate for her to just lie there topless. Erica's heartbeat quickened as it suddenly occurred to her: had the clockwork man just been teasing her, or…was she beautiful to him? Even bruised and battered as she was? Was he looking at her as a woman, and not just as a patient? Did he find her body attractive? Tempting, even?

It was a new idea that she could have power over someone simply by being alluring. Erica had never really had the opportunity to try it; her infamous reputation cleared paths at the Thule Occult Society's social gatherings, and flattery was only offered to her by sycophants and the politically ambitious. Well, that was not entirely true. Though Kroenen had taunted her about how her nose had been broken, there was no trace of mockery when he said she was lovely. And the stray thoughts she had overheard about her state of undress suggested he liked what he saw.

Curiosity seized her. It had always seemed like the assassin was just being courteous, but had he been subtly making advances all along? What would happen if she dared to tempt fate—no—if she dared to tempt Kroenen? To flirt with danger and death personified? Just a little…

"You should not assume either," Erica said softly. She deliberately met the assassin's gaze and turned her body slightly towards him. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I _want_ a man to get the wrong idea? That perhaps the wrong idea is actually the right one?"

Kroenen went very still. Then, like a cobra uncoiling, he kicked his feet free of the table struts and leaned forward, watching her with intense scrutiny. A strange excitement coursed through Erica's veins; a dark, delicious thrill at sensing him so focused on her.

"Are you quite certain, Angel?" His voice was low and smooth as silk. Doubtlessly he had caught her tantalizingly unclear turn of phrase; she could be referring to himself or to some other male entirely. "That can be a dangerous game to play…however pleasurable."

Erica felt dizzy, giddy. Maybe it was the drugs? Kroenen had said something about sedatives. Or was it the heady adrenaline rush of risk? An outrageous idea came into her mind: what if she threw the sheet to the floor? If she arched her back like one of those pin-up girl drawings the soldiers seemed to like?

She grasped the edge of the fabric—then her stomach clenched. What if she was wrong? What if Kroenen looked at her coldly and then left the room, calling some stinging reprimand over his shoulder as he went? Or, just as bad, what if she had guessed his intentions correctly and the situation spiraled out of her control? It was possible he would go further than her curiosity was prepared for.

All that aside, in her current condition she would be lucky to sit up; there was no way she would ever be able to get into that ridiculous pose. And what the hell was she thinking anyway, flirting—toying—whatever it was—with her mentor like this? Kroenen was right; this was a dangerous game. It was far more than she could handle right now. She could contemplate these ideas later, when objects were not flickering at the edges of her vision.

She pulled the sheet up, covering herself.

"This has nothing to do with what you said. It is cold in here and I am freezing," she muttered, evasively staring at the fabric bunched in her hands. It was partially the truth. The metal operating table was frigid.

"Hmmm…I endeavor to be a gentleman where you are concerned. But if you were to do this in the presence of others, they may do something untoward."

"Others?!" Erica gaped at him in shock, "You think I would—I am not an exhibitionist! Or a whore!"

"Certainly not the latter, but your assertion about the former is somewhat in doubt at the moment," he replied amiably. "Your usage of the word 'man' was rather vague. What else am I to think?"

Kroenen's unspoken insinuation hung between them: _Me, then?_

Her head reeling, Erica closed her eyes in consternation. It did not improve things. In the darkness behind her eyelids it felt as though she was spinning through space. She quickly reopened her eyes, silently swearing that the next time she decided to match wits with the assassin it would _not_ be while drugged and recovering from life-threatening wounds. Provoking someone that could give back as good as they got had its consequences.

"I was only joking, Kroenen," she grumbled.

"Then it is my prerogative to return the favor."

"I am not feeling up to games." Erica's peripheral vision was blurring again, dancing like heat waves on a summer day.

His tone was light but held a touch of steel. "You should not start what you cannot finish."

"I will finish it!" Erica shot back heatedly, and then bit her tongue when she realized what that could imply. "Argh…you are not listening."

"I assure you, I am listening _intently_."

"Of course you are," she muttered. She was tired and aching and—a sudden wave of nausea hit her and Erica swallowed hard, managing to force down the bile rising in her throat despite her mouth suddenly being as dry as a desert. "Dear gods…what exactly did you drug me with, Kroenen?"

"Morphine. I did not expect you to wake so soon; it is likely your body is still metabolizing it. You may experience some side effects."

"I _am_ experiencing, you mean."

He nodded once. "It is probable. But please, do continue. I believe you were going to explain how you are not an exhibitionist? Despite evidence to the contrary? We can ignore your choice of audience for the time being."

Too drained to invent some sharp retort, Erica glared at him in aggravation before relenting with an exhausted sigh. She considered the answer, the _real_ answer to Kroenen's question, struggling to put words to ill-defined thoughts and emotions. Finally, she held out her left hand to him.

Kroenen tilted his head at her in question, confirming her intentions. When she nodded her consent, he took her hand. He had no eyelids to close against the laboratory lights, but that did not matter; he focused and the world faded until he was only dimly aware of his body seated in the chair.

Instead he was surrounded by darkness. And in that absence of light he was utterly engulfed in the swirl of Erica's thoughts. Minds are by nature cluttered places, but he found Erica's chaos to be fascinating: like salt and dark chocolate, lightning and cinnamon, shadow and silver. She was sharply bittersweet. It was intoxicating.

But today the effects of morphine hung heavily in her mind, manifesting itself as a thick grey muffling fog. Erica's thoughts were so jumbled, so scattered and dissolving that Kroenen began to draw away from her mind, concerned that she was on the brink of losing consciousness. Abruptly there was a determined surge that coalesced into clear, coherent speech.

 _You are my closest friend. Nein—_ more _than that. Closer than friends, closer than siblings. In some ways more intimate than lovers. We are bound to each other, intrinsically part of one another. We feel each other's suffering and joy and anger. My thoughts are yours, and yours are mine… It is not strange to be naked before you. Because…in a way…I always am._

Kroenen was taken aback by her sincerity. The clockwork man immediately regretted harassing her, however enjoyable it had been—and it was a sentiment Erica also shared.

 _My apologies, Angel,_ Kroenen thought to her.

 _And mine as well_ , she thought back.

Utterly at peace, Erica withdrew and the connection was broken.

The assassin released her hand and settled back into his chair. All trace of his former joviality was gone, replaced by a quiet thoughtfulness.

"I think that is enough excitement. You need to rest…and I need to get this cleaned up," he gestured vaguely at the scattered papers and shards of glass. "I will move you somewhere more comfortable."

With painstaking care Kroenen slid his arms beneath her and picked her up, sheet and all, and carried her through the mansion. She snuggled sleepily into his chest; though cooler than usual, her body was pleasantly warm against him. Erica was dozing by the time they reached her bedroom, and she was asleep only moments after he had carefully settled her into bed.

Kroenen stood there for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of the comforter as she breathed, musing over her odd behavior. Erica's sudden advances intrigued him. There was the age difference—but perhaps that did not matter, since the assassin did not care what others might say. And his undead body did not age. Regardless, Erica sometimes did things that could be misconstrued, and since the assassin was curious, he occasionally did things that were equally ambiguous, testing to see if Erica's actions were innocent or driven by a curiosity that matched his own. The clear interest she had shown in his lab was not unwelcome.

Or at least it would not have been if Kroenen could be certain that his apprentice was fully aware of her actions. Though he had caught snippets of what was going on in her thoughts, he would not have accepted her consent if things had gotten more heated. How much of what Erica had done and said was to be attributed to a massive dose of morphine? Potential side effects included confusion and mood changes, both of which could conceivably lead to lowered inhibitions.

 _It cannot supply desires one does not already possess_ , he thought. _Lust is genuine, cannot lie…but perhaps in this case the object of its focus was merely incidental?_

Then again, Erica had appeared lucid; enough to attempt to match wits with him. What was he to think? He could not be certain. Only time would reveal if there was something more to what had happed than just the side effects of morphine.

Actually, considering the strength of the link he shared with Erica, it was surprising that something like this had not occurred sooner. It had taken mere days for Ilsa to end up in bed with him after their connection had been sealed in blood. He still bore the scars of their passionate encounters; on more than one occasion Ilsa had cut his flesh to the bone. Intensified by their bond and the power of spilled blood, the ecstasy of it had been like no other.

When Erica had joined them she had been an adolescent, barely more than a child. They had taught her that the magic the Ogdru Jahad had given her could be increased through violence; anything else would have been inappropriate. But she was a child no longer, had not been for some time. Soon it would be necessary to instruct her in the other side of her magic. And its dangers.

Strange that she had shown no signs before this. No sneaking off for illicit rendezvous, no tumbles with the servants. Kroenen knew for certain she had no experience in the matter. When she came into that part of her power it would run as white-hot as lightning through the bond they shared.

It was possible their blood bond was the very reason that she had not shown such interests sooner. Why look for companionship elsewhere, physical or not, when it was unlikely anyone could compete with the depth of intimacy she already shared with him? There was just no need.

Unaware of his thoughts, Erica slept on peacefully. There was nothing more to be done here, and the clockwork man had other things to attend to.

"Gute Nacht, Angel," he whispered. "Pleasant dreams."


End file.
